


Tar Pits

by oloros



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: Blindness, Fluff, Gen, a legitimate question about ghouls..., some fun with the characters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-15
Updated: 2020-11-15
Packaged: 2021-03-09 23:48:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 762
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27574748
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oloros/pseuds/oloros
Summary: He had a question for Hancock, and that was the worst thing to have.Hancock was always dubious with his answers.
Relationships: John Hancock & Male Sole Survivor
Kudos: 8





	Tar Pits

**Author's Note:**

> Always find myself being drawn back to this game.  
> Might as well weave some stories while I am -- not that I don't already have far too many to work on...

When he crossed the line into Goodneighbor, he knew he had to ask.

The job itself was simple. Irma had a run in with a couple of raiders, and Nate was sent to clear them out. They wanted the technology, they had said, to experience their memories as well. It was _almost_ endearing.

They were raiders, though. Rapists and thieves. Nate wasn’t so gracious to let them finish their monologues before he shot them.

But it wasn’t the raiders that piqued his question. It wasn’t even the job. He made quick travels to the Memory Den, collected his caps and a kiss on the cheek, before heading to his real destination: the Old State House, to seek clarity of a minute detail he’d never considered before…

The stairs of the building were built like a deterrent, winding and unstable, confusing to look at and threatening to stand on. It took Nate a couple visits to get used to them, confident enough that he would flight up them and peek his head into the Mayor’s quarters without feeling like he’d evaded the grace of death.

What he was looking for was more ominous, more cracked and more deranged than the walls around him or the stairs below. A ghoul clad in red with a grimy tricorner hat to match.

Hancock didn’t notice him at first. His legs were propped up on the table fronting the shoddy red couch he was sprawled out against, eyes closed and his breathing hitched in the way that told Nate all he needed to know.

“Can’t go a day without that stuff, can you?”

Hancock cracked open one dark eye. If he was looking at him, he couldn’t tell.

“My favourite vault dweller!”

Nate pulled the strap of his holster over his head and placed it down on the table, minding the ghoul’s boots. “Aren’t I the only vault dweller you know?”

“Ah, maybe… I wouldn’t remember. But you’re _probably_ my favourite.”

“You’re truly the sweetest.”

Nate sat on the couch opposite to him and gave the room a once over. Not much had changed since his last visit, though Jet littered the table in contrast to last month’s Mentats. From the slower pace of Hancock’s speech and the dopey expression on his face, it was safe to assume they were recently used.

“I heard you’ve been runnin’ errands for Irma. That why you’re here?”

“What?” Nate placed a palm to his chest. “Can’t a guy visit his ghoul friend without having an agenda?”

Hancock snorted. “People come to my quarters for one of three things: drugs, executive complaints or they didn’t get paid enough and they want special treatment.”

Nate couldn’t help but chuckle. From the time he’d spent in Diamond City compared to Goodneighbor, Hancock ran the streets like a firm friend to all; lending goods where they were needed, asking about their personal lives and making banter whenever they brushed shoulders. It was hard to think of him putting his foot down in some situations. A dangerous thought, if the fate of Finn indicated anything.

“I actually came here with a question.”

“Oh yeah? Shoot.”

He cleared his throat. How to word it?

“Can you see?”

Hancock tucked his legs in and pulled himself up, the edges of where his eyebrows would be creasing. “See what?”

“See. In general… like, are you blind?”

Hancock was silent for a moment, then, “What?”

Nate flushed. “That errand for Irma involved raiders. Must’ve been a smaller faction, ‘cause one of them was a ghoul. I’m not sure why, but his eyes really stuck out to me. They were so… blue!”

He received a frown.

He continued, “I was just thinking about how human they looked, while yours…”

He stopped. _Was this racist?_ It could’ve been racist. Ghouls couldn’t help what their eyes looked like. They couldn’t help most of their grisly appearance. Regret bloomed as soon as the words trailed away from his chapped lips.

Hancock smiled. “Damn, you got me. These old tar pits of mine? They work as well as a mole rat’s. Can’t see a thing.”

Nate got the distinct feeling he wasn’t being taken seriously.

He left that day with no more answers than he’d gone in with, just an urge to be extra descriptive with his wording towards ghouls. That was, until, the following morning he caught Hancock painting a smiley face on KLEO’s back. He only laughed and said, “What, you actually thought I was bein’ serious? Priceless.”

That was the last time he asked about a ghoul’s eyes, much less Hancock’s.


End file.
